


resistance is futile (i’d give it all up for you)

by TheSkinHorse



Category: Motherland: Fort Salem (TV)
Genre: Episodes 1x01 to 1x05, F/F, Implied Smut, Loss of Virginity, Raelle is a sappy baby, Witch Marks, a tiny bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:06:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23990530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSkinHorse/pseuds/TheSkinHorse
Summary: Raelle finds Scylla’s witch mark.
Relationships: Raelle Collar/Scylla Ramshorn
Comments: 13
Kudos: 207
Collections: Gays in Fort Salem





	resistance is futile (i’d give it all up for you)

**Author's Note:**

> A companion piece to “mark me (i’m yours)”. Thanks for all the support fam! Still unbeta’d and also written on a phone, so sorry in advance if any mistakes.

How could you resist?

When Scylla kissed you, you felt alive again, your soul unfurling in a way you didn’t think was possible anymore.

She was right - you were on a death mission before, eager to win by losing. It was a two for one bargain to avenge your mother’s memory, and put you out of your misery at the same time.

But now, instead of throwing it all away, you wanted to offer it all up to her, to continue to bask in the luxury of her attention. Your mind threw up warning flags and sounded the alarm, but her lips on yours again quieted the alerts to a dull roar.

You’ve never done this before with somebody else. You knew your own body intimately; you’ve only ever imagined translating it to another person. You’re all too aware of this fact, but you’re adamant that you can’t let it show - you hide your nerves behind aggression and push her to the wall, feigning control to hide your vulnerability.

The best part is that she _lets_ you. You take control, steer the pace. You want to be everywhere at once and she is patient, permissive. Like an animal freed, you use teeth and claws to show your appreciation. If it hurts, she shows no indication; she urges you on with gentle nods and soft gasps.

When the confines of her pants hinder your progress, you strip her bare so that’s she’s wearing nothing but that antagonizing grin. One perfectly manicured eyebrow raises at you - a challenge or an invitation, you take it as both and throw her to the bed. You want to devour every part of her.

She tastes good, too; a musk that appeals to your senses, a hint of salt on your tongue. She gives you instructions that make the southern adventure quick and easy, and she comes quietly while you drink her in. You clean her thoroughly, content to spend forever there, lost in the warmth, until you feel her fingers stroke through your hair. That grin is still there when you look up - perhaps a bit more dishevelled that time, a bit more content.

In the aftermath of the night you curl into her from behind, draping your arm around her waist to pull her close. You find her mark then, on the back of her shoulder. It’s a glossy purple, an obvious sign of a job well done. You smirk at first, proud, and then frown.

You’re not sure if you’re the one who made her mark that way, and you don’t ask - this is too new for questions like that, your insecurities still too poignant. Instead you bite down, kiss and suck, the action making Scylla pant and squirm like every other carnal deed you committed that night. When you pull away, her mark is obscured by a bruise, an even deeper, vibrant purple than the one before.

 _That_ mark at least you _know_ you put there.

Days later the bruise you had left on her shoulder had faded to a off-yellow. You know now that her mark does not shine because of you, which you accept; of course you were not her first, and that’s okay. There are other answers she gives you that you do not accept so readily, and in those silent, dim hours of the morning you are filled with doubt.

“Hey, are you here with me?” her voice yanks you into the present, and you realize you had zoned out while she was speaking. She turns around in your arms in order to face you. Her smile melts away your apprehension, as usual.

“I’m here, I’m with you, I promise,” you respond, your voice raspy from sleep. You meant it when you told her that just the day before - no matter who she was, who she is, whatever happens, you’re with her.

After all, how could you resist?


End file.
